‘Yes. Any eagle-eyed observer would spot it—and there are hundreds of those out there.’
‘I know. And once word gets out everyone will want to know who the father is—and I won’t know what to say.’
‘But you do know who the father is!’
‘And think of the questions if we tell them! Are we getting back together? And if we aren’t then why am I pregnant by you? Or what about the worst-case scenario? Some sleazy journalist bribing someone at the hospital to get my due-date! Then they could work it back to the Cannes Festival—and I’ll bet that at least one of the staff at the hotel could be bribed into giving them a story that we came out of the lift in a state of partial undress! Can you imagine the scoop that would provide?’
‘Jenny—’
She shook her head. ‘Or, if we don’t tell them, then the questions and conjecture will be even worse! Every single man I’ve so much as said good morning to will come under intense scrutiny! There will be all kinds of tasteless headlines—Who Is The Father Of Jennifer’s Love-Child?’
‘Jenny, Jenny, aren’t you getting a little carried away?’
‘Am I?’ Her blue eyes were clear and defiant. ‘Think about it, Matt—is it really such an incredible idea?’
And that was the worst of it—he could see it, quite plainly, as if someone was playing a film inside his head. In a way, fame robbed you of simple humanity. They had become things—to be dissected and picked over. He shook his head and his eyes were clouded with a bleak kind of sadness. ‘And I brought you into this crazy world of showbiz,’ he said huskily. ‘What kind of a lover would do that?’
A few months ago she might have agreed with him, but so much had changed—and not just the baby. Though maybe because of the baby. And it was all to do with responsibility—acknowledging it and accepting it. It took two to do everything in a relationship—to fall in love and then to wreck it. You couldn’t place the blame on one person’s shoulders.
She shook her head. ‘Oh, Matt—that’s not what I’m saying! You didn’t frogmarch me into the studios with a gun at my head, did you? I wanted fame, too. I saw what you had and I wanted it with a hunger which sometimes frightened me—but not enough to stop me! But none of that’s important. Not now—we can’t change the past. But I don’t want any more pressure—because that will put pressure on the baby.’ She looked at him with an appeal in her eyes. ‘Just what kind of story are we going to give the press?’
He swore in Italian, getting up to pace up and down the polished oak floors of a flat in which he had slept for barely more than a dozen nights in the two years he’d owned it—he, a man who’d grown up in a cramped tenement building in New York? How crazy was that?
‘Why should the press be our first consideration?’ he exploded.
And, in spite of everything, Jennifer’s lips curved into a rueful smile. ‘That’s like asking why the grass is green!’
He let out a pent-up sigh and went to look out of the window. Below lay Hyde Park in all its glory. Joggers moved along the paths and mothers and nannies strolled with pushchairs beneath trees which were beginning to be touched with autumn gold. Soon winter would arrive. The London streets would be washed with rain or dusted with frost or even—if they were very lucky—heaped with snow.
And Jennifer might trip and fall!
He turned round. ‘Have you told your mother?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Don’t you think you should?’
‘Why? The first thing she’ll do is think that being a grandmother is going to make her sound old. And the second will be to give me a hard time over the damage this is going to do to my career.’
‘She hates me,’ he observed.
‘She hates all men, Matt, not just you. Ever since my father walked out her view of the world has been distorted.’
It occurred to him that Mrs Warren had influenced her daughter more than Jennifer had perhaps ever acknowledged. Had she learned at her mother’s knee that all men were inherently unfaithful? Was that why she had always been so suspicious of him? Only now could he see—too late—that maybe he should have sat down and talked about it with her instead of becoming increasingly frustrated at her lack of trust and her willingness to believe the rumours instead of listening to him.
‘You’re going to have to tell her some time.’
Jennifer briefly closed her eyes. ‘I know I am. Just not yet. If we think outside interest would be intrusive, then just imagine…’
Matt shuddered. ‘I would rather not.’
It occurred to him that the two of them had not spoken with such ease for a long time. And that was good, he told himself. Jenny was right—they could not change what had happened, and in the conventional sense their relationship was over. But civility between them must be maintained. He had wanted that before, but in view of the baby it had now became imperative.
‘Shall we go to Pantelleria?’ he asked softly. ‘To the dammuso? We could both do with a little rest and recuperation.’ His eyes narrowed as they took in her pinched face and pale skin. ‘Particularly you,’ he added.
Her mouth suddenly dried, but only her attitude of mind could save her from plunging into regret. For surely Matteo’s suggestion made sense? A place which she knew offered refuge and peace. Possibly the only such place in the world—at least for them.
Pantelleria—the black pearl of the Mediterranean. The beautiful island where they had spent their honeymoon. Where wild flowers bloomed and rare birds visited.
There, Matteo owned a simple square white house built of volcanic stone, with shallow domes and thick white walls which stayed deliciously cool in summer. She remembered them lying together in bed on the last morning of their honeymoon and vowing to return as often as they could. But of course that had been one of many promises broken by a lack of that most precious commodity…time.
And nothing had changed there.
She stared at him blankly. ‘How can we? I’ve got two films lined up.’
Matteo shrugged. ‘Cancel them.’
‘I can’t do that!’
His black eyes glinted. ‘Can’t? Or won’t?’ he challenged softly. ‘What’s more important to you—your work or your marriage?’
‘I notice you’re not offering to do the same!’
‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Jenny.’ He gave a brief, hard smile and his eyes were as brittle as jet. ‘If I have to cancel a couple of films to take this course of action, then so be it.’
It was like seeing a side of Matteo she’d never seen before—it was certainly the first time she’d ever seen a chink in the tough armour of his ambition, and Jennifer was momentarily taken aback. ‘You’d risk your career?’ she whispered. She nearly added for me, until she reminded herself that it wasn’t for her—but for their baby. And what was wrong with that?
‘My career will always pick up,’ he said arrogantly. ‘But films can wait. This can’t,’ he finished, with another shrug of his broad shoulders.
Jennifer knew that despite his almost careless air this was a supreme sacrifice for Matteo. He had made films almost back to back ever since she’d known him—and way before that. As if he was frightened of stepping off the merry-go-round of successful work which bred still more work.
And now that it had become a real possibility—instead of a throwaway remark—Jennifer could see the sense in Matteo’s suggestion that they escape together, to a place which she could see might act like a balm on their troubled spirits.
The island lay halfway between Africa and Sicily—where Matteo’s ancestors had come from and where secret-keeping was legendary, taught from the cradle. On Pantelleria Matteo wielded the influence of his birthright, not that of the fickle fame brought about by celluloid.
They had been happy there—and part of her wanted to hang on to those preci
ous memories and leave them intact.
He saw her hesitation and suspected he knew its cause—for did he not have misgivings about returning there himself? Would it not unsettle him—reminding him of the dreams they had shared and never realised?
‘You know you would be safe there.’
Safe? Alone with Matteo? That was a definition of safe she wasn’t sure existed. Jennifer felt as if her life were a pack of cards which someone had thrown into the air to see where they would land. ‘But how long would we stay there, Matt? I mean—I don’t want to have the baby there.’
The brittleness had gone and now his eyes gleamed. ‘You think that no child has ever been born on Pantelleria?’
‘How long?’ she persisted quietly.
‘Long enough to bring the colour back to your cheeks and for you to rest and eat good food.’ There was a pause. ‘And long enough to decide what we are going to tell the world. To decide what our strategy will be.’
From a supposedly hot-headed and passionate Italian it was possibly the coldest and most
matter-of-fact declaration Jennifer had ever heard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Matteo organised their trip to Pantelleria with a degree of organisation to rival a military campaign. Despite the loyalty of his staff—who these days had to sign a watertight confidentiality agreement—he entrusted relatively few of them with the knowledge of their whereabouts.
As he said to Jennifer—this was just too big a story to risk.
And that was all this was, she reminded herself. A damage limitation exercise over a story which had the potential to explode in their faces.
Jennifer had forgotten how extraordinarily protected you could feel in the exclusive coterie of Matt’s inner circle—but this time there was a subtle difference.
‘Your staff are being unbelievably nice to me,’ she said, as they waited for their baggage to be loaded onto the private jet which would fly them to the island.
Matteo snapped shut his briefcase and frowned as he looked up at her. ‘Aren’t they always?’
Jennifer switched her phone off. ‘Oh, forget I said anything,’ she said airily. She certainly wasn’t going to blow the whistle on anyone.
But Matteo laid his hand on her arm, and the unexpected contact caught her by enough surprise to lower her defences. ‘Jenny? Tell me. Because if you don’t then how the hell will I know?’
And maybe it was her duty to tell him. Nobody dared tell Matteo anything. And even when they did they told him what they thought he wanted to hear. ‘They normally put a barrier between you and the rest of the world.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Well, yes, I suppose they do—but surely you can understand why?’
‘From the world, yes—from your family, no.’ She hesitated. ‘Once, I remember trying to get through to you on the phone, and being completely stonewalled and unable to reach you. They dismissed me as if I was some kind of disgruntled ex-employee! It made me feel so…’
‘So what?’ he prompted.
Jennifer hesitated—but what did she have to lose by telling him? ‘So isolated, I guess.’ Jennifer shrugged. ‘Mind you, that was after we had separated. Maybe they were acting on your instructions.’
His face darkened. ‘I gave no such instructions.’
In fact he remembered feeling pretty isolated himself. The rupture of their relationship had given him a sense of being cut adrift from all that was familiar. Because even when their marriage had been in an appalling state they had still been in contact. She had still been his anchor, the person he turned to to confide in. He’d telephoned her from locations around the world, or she him. But once she had left—that had been it. Nothing. As though he had never even occupied a tiny part of her life. She had cut contact completely—or so he had thought.
Now it seemed that his staff had been instrumental in that sudden severing of all ties, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he stared at her. He employed people to act on his decisions, not to make them for him.
‘So, how many of the famous d’Arezzo workforce will be accompanying us to Pantelleria?’ asked Jennifer.
‘None.’ He savoured the moment. ‘Nessuno. Just us.’
Jennifer blinked in surprise. ‘No chef?’ she echoed. ‘But you always take Gerard with you!’
A sense of regret washed over him. Was this what he’d intended when he had started chasing his dreams? To employ so many staff that he seemed to have lost control of his own life? ‘I’ll do the cooking,’ he drawled.
Jennifer’s surprise increased. ‘You?’
‘Do you really consider me incapable of living my life without any staff to help me, Jenny?’ he demanded exasperatedly. ‘That I never knew what it was to be cold or go hungry? Or to take jobs that I hated in order to survive before I got my big break?’
‘Well, in theory, no—of course I don’t. But when I met you you were so successful that it was hard to imagine you being anything else. Like a slim person telling you they once had a weight problem. You can’t quite believe it.’
‘Well, believe it,’ he said quietly, and smiled. ‘And come and meet our pilot.’
He had given her a lot to think about on the flight, but the reality of what they were doing hit her when the luxury private jet touched down, and she turned to him with wide eyes. ‘Are we completely mad, do you think?’
He gave a lazy smile. ‘Very probably.’
And the easy intimacy of that smile spelt danger, reminding Jennifer to be on her guard. To be careful to protect her feelings. Because nothing had changed between them. This trip didn’t mean that they were compatible, or that they weren’t in the process of getting a divorce. She was having a baby. That was all.
Pantelleria’s October air was still deliciously warm, and coastal flora bloomed in a profusion of pinks and reds and yellows. The crystal blue waters which surrounded it were rich in lobsters, and in the fertile valleys of the interior grapes grew as large as plums. It was like paradise.
Matteo felt the weight of expectation lift from his shoulders as he drove along the familiar unchanged roads to the Valle della Ghirlanda and his dammuso.
These days, superstars visited the island, but Matteo had fallen in love with Pantelleria as a child—when his parents had saved up enough money to send him to stay with one of his aunts during one long, dry summer. His family had laughed when he said he’d own a house there one day, but sure enough he’d done it—buying the dammuso with his very first film cheque. He had set about completely modernising the old building, whilst making sure it retained its natural charm.
It offered two terraces—one by a vast swimming pool which had a backdrop of the distant sea. The high walls hid a secret pleasure garden, with an irrigation system which had been built by the Arabs during their four-hundred-year occupation.
But it was the cool, domed main bedroom which Jennifer longed and yet dreaded to see—with its huge bed and restful simplicity. If only she could close her eyes and take herself back to the person she’d been then…would she have done anything differently? Would he?
‘I guess you’d better sleep in here,’ said Matteo, as they both stood in silence looking into the room.
‘And you?’
He shrugged. ‘The guest room is prepared.’ He wondered if she would heed the unspoken question in his voice. Was she thinking of inviting him into her bed—to maybe build some kind of way back through the physical intimacy of being close once more?
But Jennifer didn’t hear; she was struck dumb by the c
hain reaction of feelings which had been sparked by being in this room, this house. Delight, sadness, regret, and sorrow—all those emotions and a hundred more besides flowed over her in a bittersweet tide.
She stared at the bed as if it was a ghost—and in a way it was. And imagine if the ghost of her honeymoon self were to look up and see what had become of her and Matteo. Separated—with only an unplanned baby holding them together. How heartbroken that madly-in-love Jennifer would have been.
‘Our baby should have been conceived in a bed like this,’ she whispered—as much to that ghost of her former self as to the man by her side. ‘Not in some seedy lift.’
‘So many should haves, Jenny,’ he said, and his deep voice was etched with pain, too. ‘We should have listened more. Trusted more. Talked more. We should not have been too proud to say what was on our minds.’
‘We should not have been parted so much,’ she ventured—because this was a game it was frighteningly easy to play. There was a whole list of things they had done wrong without meaning to. Had she and Matteo just got unlucky? Or had they simply been too bound up in selfish interests to cherish their marriage properly?
‘Do you think those problems happen with all couples—only some work out how to deal with them?’ she questioned.
‘I think we both struggled so hard to make it in our own careers that we forgot to put any work into the relationship,’ he said slowly. ‘And I think that once success arrived we felt that our lives were charmed and nothing bad could touch us.’
‘But we were wrong,’ she breathed.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Oh, Matt,’ she said brokenly.
He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tight against him, kiss away her cares, but she looked so tense—as if one touch would shatter her into a thousand pieces. In the dim light of the shuttered room he thought how pale her face looked.
A Scandal, a Secret, a BabyMarriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby! Page 21